


Uncomfortable Truths

by Lady_Siren



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forgiveness, Mentions of Jaime/Cersei, Tyrion gives advice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Siren/pseuds/Lady_Siren
Summary: Jaime has arrived at Winterfell to fight the dead.  Before that, however, he must face Brienne and reveal a shameful truth, one that he is certain will change their relationship for good.





	1. Chapter 1

Brienne watches the snowflakes sizzle away as they fall toward the flames of her fire. There are several fires burning around Winterfell's courtyard and groups of men and Wildlings are huddled around them for warmth, but Brienne stands alone. She's used to it; tonight especially she welcomes it. After all, Jaime's arrival at their gates has sent her thoughts--not to mention her pulse--racing.

They're in the dusk hours of the Long Night, and yet she can't seem to tear her mind off of one too-handsome man. Of all the silly things to concern herself with...

"I have something unpleasant to tell you."

She spins around, startled by a voice that has come from right behind her. It's Jaime, of course it is, and her cheeks flush as she realizes how distracted she must be if he could so easily sneak up on her. She's grateful that the dark hides her red cheeks and ears.

"I heard," she says. "I wasn't entirely surprised to find out that the queen wouldn't be keeping her word, but it is a hard blow."

"Best be careful, referring to Cersei as 'the queen' in present company." Those green eyes of his flick around the courtyard. "These are all staunch dragonmen now, aren't they?"

"They follow the King of the North, as they've sworn to do," Brienne replies.

"Is he still a king, now that he’s bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen?" Jaime's smile is thin and humorless. "Forgive me, there have been so many rightful rulers that I've grown a bit confused."

Before she can respond, his smile fades and he looks away from her. There's something dark in his eyes, some shame he's having trouble putting into words. "Cersei's betrayal isn't what I was going to speak with you about. You're the last person I...I'm loathe to further damage your opinion of me, but it would be worse if you were to hear it from someone else."

A shiver that has nothing to do with the falling snow runs down Brienne's spine. Whatever he's about to reveal has stripped him of the pride he wears like armor; it's even clipped his glib tongue. She's desperately certain she does not want to hear this confession, in fact she wonders when exactly she became his confessor anyway, but she can't bring herself to walk away when he so clearly needs her.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet her gaze. There's a long, horrible moment of silence, and then at last he opens his mouth.

"Cersei is pregnant."

The words wash over her, and for a few precious seconds they have no impact. It's as though he's spoken in a different language: the sentence he's just uttered has no meaning, it's just a string of noises. She's almost relieved...and then they explode inside of her like a fist to the diaphragm.

 _Cersei is pregnant_. He doesn't need to add the fact that he is the father. Even if she hadn’t been privy to the nature of the twins’ relationship, the truth is plain to read in his eyes. Brienne deeply regrets not walking away when she had the chance. Damn her soft heart, and thrice-damn him for taking advantage of it. All she can do is stare at him, and the hurt is too raw for her to hide. His mouth twists slightly and for once he is the first one to drop his gaze.

"I...I see," Brienne manages to choke out.

"It was a mistake, it's all been a mistake. You have no idea how much I...years of my life..." He's scrambling for some sort of explanation. Brienne waves his feeble words away, turning from him as if to shield her body from any further pain he might inflict. When he manages to look up at her again, she is the one with averted eyes.

“I know you don’t understand. To be honest, _I_ don’t understand.” His remaining hand moves hopelessly between them as though he might pluck the right words from thin air. “You have to believe me when I say I’m done with her. Truly done. My only regret is that I had to leave behind an innocent unborn child. Well, not my _only_ regret. I regret…oh seven hells, Brienne, would you please say something?”

“There is nothing to say, ser.” Brienne’s words are as hard and cold as the ice of the Wall. Though she had curled in on herself a little after he’d told her, she now drew herself up to her full height. The dark cannot diminish her blazing eyes, eyes which are the same hot blue as the heart of a flame.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it was not the news that Jaime had gone back to bed with Cersei and fathered another child. She turns and walks away from him quickly, using her long legs to full advantage. With every step, she beats herself up a little more: after all, why _shouldn’t_ she expect that news? Had she really thought he’d stay out of Cersei’s bed? _Cersei:_ the queen, the most beautiful woman in the whole world and the woman that he’d loved his whole life. How could anyone resist?

Perhaps she had expected it deep down. The truth is that she had hoped he wouldn’t go back to bed with her. She had hoped that the changes she had seen in him meant that he wouldn’t fall back into his sister’s web. Jaime has brutally stripped her of that hope, leaving her feeling just as foolish as she had back in Renly’s camp. _Even more foolish_ , she amends, and to her horror she realizes she is crying.

Jaime watches her push through a door and disappear into Winterfell’s keep as the first waves of isolation wash over him. Brienne was his last friend; maybe, apart from Tyrion, she had been his only friend. He knows he’s done the right thing, but the cost of it still staggers him despite the miles he’d spent preparing himself for just such an outcome. Now he’s completely alone in a stronghold full of his former enemies and there is no one left to vouch for him.

He’s always been a fool, but rarely has that fact been so poignantly underlined.

“For such a handsome devil, you truly have a knack for driving away women.” Tyrion’s voice drifted to him from off to his left, and Jaime turns to watch his younger brother struggle through the snow to stand by the fire. As usual, his tone is teasing. Tyrion is almost never serious, not even when his life depends on it, and Jaime has ever been one of his favorite targets.

A puffed up, vainglorious knight in stupid, gilded armor. Jaime supposes he’s made an especially easy target throughout the years.

“Was that Brienne of Tarth making a hasty exit, or is there some other giantess in armor around here?” At Jaime’s incredulous look, Tyrion grins. “It’s a fair question, what with our Wildling guests roaming about.”

“You know it was. I’m not really in the mood to be teased, little brother, so if it’s all the same to you…” Jaime turns to make his own retreat into the keep, his mouth a bitter twist. Tyrion’s hand shoots out and grasps his elbow, and the older Lannister is surprised to see sympathy in his brother’s eyes when he turns back around.

“You told her about Cersei’s pregnancy.” It isn’t a question. Jaime starts to ask how Tyrion could possibly know about that, and then closes his mouth. Of course Tyrion knows. Of the three Lannister siblings, he has always been the most intelligent, observant, the one that reads people as easily as the books he loves so much.

Instead of asking an asinine question, Jaime says, “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Tyrion watches him, his face expressionless in the flickering firelight. “You could have kept silent. You could have lied. After all, there’s no guarantee the babe is yours: we’re both familiar with Cersei’s…methods of persuasion.”

Jaime’s left hand clenches in a burst of anger, but it’s nothing more than reflex. “It’s mine. She was sure.”

“And our sweet sister _never_ tells a falsehood.” Tyrion’s smile is a sarcastic curl of lips. “Did she offer you a place at her side, to rule with her until the babe comes of age? Did she offer to make its true parentage known to all?”  
Jaime doesn’t answer, but his silence is plenty of confirmation for his younger brother. Tyrion’s smile turns sorrowful, and he grips Jaime’s arm in solidarity. “I’m glad you’re finally free of her.”

“I had to tell Brienne. It was a matter of…of…”

“Honor?” The teasing gleam has returned to Tyrion’s eyes, and Jaime knows that his rather confused feelings for the warrior maid are written plain across his fool face. He feels his face heat and is grateful for the darkness.

“She would never have forgiven me if she’d found out some other way,” he says, turning his gaze to the fire. Privately, however, he has to acknowledge the fact that honor had played a part in it. Things had changed since Harrenhal, perhaps even before that. He isn’t sure if he’s a better man. He doubts it. But Brienne has reminded him of the man he once wanted to be. Whenever their paths cross, she makes him feel as though there is still hope, still a chance he could become that man.

“True, though it remains to be seen if she’ll forgive you at all.” Tyrion has also turned toward the fire. He lifts his hands toward the flames to warm them. “And I take it you _do_ want her to forgive you?”

 _I don’t deserve it_. Jaime doesn’t say it out loud. His hand clenches around the hilt of his sword.

“Do you want my advice, dear brother?” Tyrion asks. For the first time tonight, a slight but real smile curves Jaime’s lips.

“If I said no, you would doubtless still give it,” he retorts. He is rewarded by his younger brother’s laugh, and for a moment the last few awful years melt away and they are true allies again as they had been in their youth.

“And they say _I’m_ the clever Lannister.” The brothers smile at each other before Tyrion continues. “My advice is this: loosen that fool tongue of yours and tell her how you feel. Winter is here, brother, and there’s a good chance it will be the last many of us see. Don’t waste these last few days. When the Night King arrives, it will be too late. Don’t leave things between you like this when you go into battle. Even if Brienne doesn’t forgive you, you’ll fight better with this burden off of your shoulders.”

Jaime is silent, considering his brother’s words with care. Tyrion turns toward him once more.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “my observations strongly suggest that she _will_ forgive you.”

“She shouldn’t,” Jaime replies, glancing down at his glove-encased golden hand.

“Probably not. But then, love makes us do strange things.”

Jaime’s eyes jerk up to meet his brother’s gaze, but Tyrion is already striding across the courtyard toward Bronn and a group of Wildlings.

 _Love?_ It can’t be true. He and Brienne have an undeniable bond, it’s true, but love? She’s far too good and far too sensible to love him, and even if she does, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve _her._

Still, the word reverberates in his brain, sparking hope which he knows he shouldn’t indulge. There is so little time before the army of the dead arrives…perhaps Tyrion is right. Perhaps its time to gather his courage.

Tyrion glances over at him from Bronn’s group of gambling Wildlings and gives him a nod. Jaime takes a deep breath, nods back, and heads for the keep in pursuit of Brienne. When he faces the Night King, it will be with a heart free of regrets and, if he’s disgustingly lucky, strengthened by the love of the most remarkable woman he’s ever known.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is still an idiot, Tyrion returns with some more good™ advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your warm response to chapter one! I haven't written anything in this fandom yet so I was nervous, but the response was so positive and amazing! I decided to make this a multi-chap, but a short one, so there will be one more chapter after this to wrap things up. Thank you so much for reading this and for your awesome support!

The door to Brienne’s chambers is shut and barred. Podrick is nowhere to be seen either, meaning he’s either cloistered with his mistress or he’s been sent away. With a sinking heart, Jaime lifts his hand and knocks. Silence is his answer, not that he expected anything else.

“Brienne,” he calls, leaning his forehead against the wood of her door. “Can we talk at least? That wasn’t…that wasn’t the end of my confession.”

 _Nothing_. He can’t even hear her moving around on the other side of the barrier, but he can picture her. She’ll be sitting on the edge of her bed with a stiff back. There’s a frown on her face as she stares at the door, and Oathkeeper is resting across her lap. Though she probably isn’t wearing her armor, he just knows her internal shields will be raised, and they’ll be just as impenetrable as the steel. He sighs and wonders when it all got so complicated, but of course he knows; things got complicated when he ended Aerys’ reign of terror.

Jaime lets out a heavy sigh and his golden hand clunks against the wooden door in defeat. He’d thought coming north would absolve him somehow, lift a weight off of his shoulders. He’d thought that, _for once_ , he was doing the right thing. The honorable thing. That he was doing what Brienne would have done had she been given the same choice. Of course, that was an absurd assumption: Brienne never would have found herself in Jaime’s circumstances anyway.

After years of blindly following whenever Cersei tugged his lead, Jaime had expected to feel free. This isn’t the case at all. What Jaime feels is cold, tired, and alone. He is aware that he is at liberty to move about Winterfell on the merit of Brienne’s word alone. The Starks hate him, as does the King of the North, and the Dragon Queen would like nothing more than to roast him as her father would have done. He doesn’t even expect Tyrion to leap to his defense, not with their recent history still heavy between them. Jaime is only unfettered because Brienne has convinced them all that he is worth something to the war effort, but he suspects that as soon as he ceases to be useful, his head is as good as on a spike. He has alienated—and worse—disappointed and hurt his only friend.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wishing he could say it to Brienne’s face. It’s all he has left to offer, a sad little apology. He turns away and begins walking back down the corridor, thinking he might at least tempt Bronn away from his gambling in order to get them both blind drunk. Bronn can be thorny company and the former sellsword is likely to kick him while he’s down, but at least he won’t be drowning his sorrows alone.

He’s only gone two steps when the door behind him creaks open. He turns and meets Brienne’s gaze, willing himself not to flinch at the cold expression on her face. She’s never used tears as a weapon, but in this case Jaime almost wishes she would. It would be better than the stiff, frigid countenance she’s displaying now.

“All those words I said when you got here. All the explaining I’ve done, trying to make everyone see that you’re a better man, that you’ve _changed._ But you haven’t changed at all, have you?” Brienne can’t seem to stop the words that are pouring out of her mouth, and the undercurrent of hurt makes him duck his head in shame.

“But words are wind, aren’t they? Thank you for reminding me, ser. I shan’t forget again,” she says, and she begins to swing her door shut once more. Jaime is faster, however: his right arm darts out and his golden hand finally proves its worth as a doorstop. She glares at him, a dangerous glower he hasn’t seen since their first days on the road from Riverrun. It scares him tonight more than it did then because now he knows what she’s capable of.

“There is nothing I can say that will change what I’ve done. If I could take it back, I would.” His eyes blaze into hers, willing her to believe him. “But I’m here now, Brienne. _I’m here_. That’s got to count for something.”

“Why _are_ you here?” Brienne counters. “I can’t seem to figure it out.”

“I made a promise,” he replies through a tight jaw. He can keep his promises, he is here to prove he can keep his promises. But that isn’t the only reason. The second one lingers in the space between them, a pressure that leaves them both feeling tense and edgy.

Brienne’s eyes flash. “You made a promise,” she repeats in a voice that is uncharacteristically flat.

 _I came for you, I came to prove it to them all but mostly I came to prove it to you, you stupid, stubborn wench_ —Jaime cuts off this line of thought before it can lead him into more dangerous waters.

“I couldn’t cede all the moral high ground to you,” he says instead, trying to insert some of their normal banter into the situation. When her eyes narrow, he switches back to sincerity. “You’re the only person who thinks I _can_ keep an oath. I couldn’t make a liar out of you when you’d spoken up for me.”

Brienne continues to stare at him, leaving Jaime to wonder if his words have had any impact at all. He’s not used to having to guess at her thoughts. The Brienne he knew—his wench—had always been so easy to read. Something along the way had hardened her. Jaime wonders for a moment if _he_ is that something, and the thought sends a lance of pain through him.

“Brienne, please. I’m sorry,” he says, and the desperation in his voice is pitiful but there’s nothing left for him to do but grovel. His father would be rolling in his grave no doubt, spouting some parable about lions and sheep, but Jaime doesn’t care anymore. He needs Brienne to look at him like he might be worth something again. Begging seems like a small price to pay in exchange.

“I need to rest before my watch. Goodnight, Ser Jaime,” Brienne says, and for an instant her mask slips and he sees the depth of her hurt. It’s deep enough to swallow them both whole, and it leaves Jaime speechless just long enough for Brienne to get her door closed again. He hears the lock click into place and knows she won’t open it again.

“I came to fight—I came to be beside you, Brienne. The whole long, bastardly cold journey up here, all I could think was that I want to be with you when the dead come.” It’s stupid, he knows, to say these words to a closed door. There’s no way she can hear him, he’s barely raised his voice above a whisper. He should have said them before, but…

He blows out a frustrated breath and leaves, trying not to remember what he’d told Bronn not so long ago: that he wants to die in the arms of the woman he loves.

Instead, to distract himself, he decides he’s done being contrite. He’s apologized and that’s all he can do for now. He’ll just have to wait and see what she makes of his apology.

~~

The room is too small. Brienne paces its length, trying to make sense of her thoughts, but she’s beginning to feel caged in and that only makes things worse. She's hopelessly jumbled, torn between running after Jaime and accepting his apology or…or whatever it would take to stop feeling so betrayed. After all, it’s not like they owe each other any kind of loyalty. They’ve been enemies up until very recently (although she hasn’t really thought of him as an enemy in quite a long time), and while they’d struck a sort of friendship, he isn’t _hers._ The idea that he’d even want to be is ludicrous, and he’d be the first one to laugh at the notion.

So why does it feel like a knife in the heart?

 _Because you love him, you fool_. Brienne’s face flushes and she scowls at the wall. Fool is too generous. How could she do this to herself again?

She can’t risk leaving her room and running into him, and the feeling of being penned in increases to the point where it’s almost unbearable. She’d sent Pod away so he wouldn’t witness her shame, but she regrets it now. If he were here he might be able to distract her from her folly. She could use a distraction: something to do with her hands, someone to fight, _anything_.

Her distraction comes just minutes later, in the form of a dwarf.

“Brienne? I know you’re in there. It’s Tyrion and I’ve brought wine,” he calls, and though his tone is friendly she can hear the steel beneath the words: he will not be turned away. Still, she contemplates that very thing for a moment before Tyrion knocks impatiently.

“I am able to pick a lock—my father always did despair of the company I keep—but I’d prefer not to. So! If you’d be so kind, my lady?”

Brienne heaves a sigh and strides over to the door, admitting the youngest Lannister to her chamber with no small amount of trepidation.

“My Lord Hand,” she says, and Tyrion waves away her formality with a slosh of the flagon he’s carrying. In his other hand are two pewter cups.

“No need for that, not between friends,” he says as he pours them each a generous measure of the wine. Brienne raises her eyebrows.

“Friends?” she repeats, and Tyrion flashes her a grin as he passes over one of the cups. She accepts it but doesn’t drink, her stomach twisting as she realizes that the Lannister brothers have the same smile. Tyrion does drink, emptying his own cup in a mere moment before he refills it.

“Certainly,” he replies, setting the flagon down on the small bedside table before he hoists himself up onto her bed. “You saved my brother’s life, after all. Why shouldn’t we be friends?”

Brienne doesn’t have an answer for that, so she takes a cautious sip of the wine before settling herself into the lone chair in the room. To her surprise, the wine is very good, although where he’s stashed away such a fine vintage must be a well-kept secret indeed. The soldiers have been down to watery ale since before they’d arrived at Winterfell.

“Why have you sought me out, my lord?” she asks instead. After all, he is the Hand of the Queen and there are surely other ways he might spend an evening. Tyrion notes her perceptiveness and his laughter is appreciative.

“I can see you don’t believe for a second it’s for the mere pleasure of your company,” he says. “Yes, I can see why Jaime likes you.”

Brienne goes very still and stares down at the red liquid in her cup. The silence stretches for a moment as Tyrion considers her, and she avoids his eyes by sipping the wine again. He also drinks, again draining his cup much faster than her, and he pours his third before setting it aside and leaning forward with steepled fingers.

“He _does_ like you, you know.”

“Please,” she says, wincing at the pain in her voice. She doesn’t want to talk about this, she doesn’t want to think about what Jaime feels or doesn’t feel for her. She doesn’t even want to think about her own feelings, it’s much too embarrassing.

Tyrion’s eyes are much too knowing, they see through her much too easily. It’s difficult for her to meet his gaze, but she forces herself to lift her chin. He smiles at her again, and this time it’s soft. She’s not sure, but he seems to be…empathetic.

“They call me a freak too. Oh, not to my face, not so long as I wear this,” he says, flicking the hand-shaped brooch pinned to his tunic. “It doesn’t matter what else I am, they’ll always see the monster before they see the man. I imagine it’s much the same for you, my lady?”

“I…yes, that’s so,” Brienne agrees with reluctance.

“It makes it hard to believe anyone could truly love you, doesn’t it?” There’s a world of sadness in Tyrion’s eyes now. “You don’t have to say anything, I know. I had…I had a wife once, a real wife, but…well, it’s a long story, I won’t bore you with it. Suffice to say, I lost her because I didn’t believe in her love for me. It is still one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made in a life full of them.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” It isn’t a lie: she is sorry for him. Sorry, and a little confused. Why has he confided in her?

Tyrion seems to sense her confusion. He picks up his cup again and takes a long swallow. “The reason I told you that story, Brienne, is that I’m hoping to help you avoid making the same mistake.”

Brienne’s mouth drops open, and she struggles to find words. “My lord, I…there is no one…my situation isn’t…”

Abruptly, Tyrion changes tack. He turns his attention to his cup. “May I tell you something about my brother, Lady Brienne?”

“I’m not a—yes, yes alright.” Brienne is thoroughly confused now, but perhaps if she keeps listening, Tyrion will make his meaning plain. She sets aside her cup of wine, knowing that drink will not make this conversation any easier.

“I’ve always loved my brother. That surprises some people, but to me he was always golden, and even better: he was kind. He always wanted to be a knight, everyone knows that. But it wasn’t just being good at swordplay or horsemanship. He believed in the tales, the old songs of honor and valor. It wasn’t until much later that reality set in.”

“And he became the Kingslayer.” It has been a long time since that name has crossed Brienne’s lips. Saying it again makes her feel uncomfortable.

Tyrion lifts his cup to her in acknowledgement. “If you want to understand my brother, you have to start with two facts: Jaime is incredibly loyal in his own way, and he’s a direct reflection of the ones he loves.”

Brienne says nothing, but Tyrion can tell she’s listening closely. Those astonishing eyes are locked onto him and her expression is guarded but intent.

“When it was Cersei, he was still golden, still a knight…but he was cruel. Like our sweet sister, Jaime seemed to think the ends always justified the means. He cared naught for honor or valor because Cersei placed so little importance on those traits. Had she been kinder, well…things might have turned out quite differently for all of us. As it was, it was only with me that there was a hint of the boy he’d been before she sank her claws into him.”

Tyrion shifts on the bed to face Brienne fully, and his eyes are suddenly boring into hers. It’s clear that he doesn’t want her to miss a word of whatever is coming next, and she braces herself. Even so, she’s unprepared for his following statement.

“Now that it’s _you_ , things are changing.”

“Me—?” Brienne lets out a startled, incredulous laugh. Tyrion is well-informed and observant, there’s no denying that, but somehow he’s gotten this very, very wrong. She’s aware that her love for Jaime is probably easy to discern, just as her love for Renly had been. But Jaime doesn’t love her. He respects her, perhaps even considers her a close friend, but romance is out of the question.

Isn’t it?

“Yes, you,” Tyrion replies, looking stern. “I told you not to make the same mistake I did. I wasn’t finished. Now that he’s in love with you, he’s starting to become a different man. He takes his word seriously, he considers his actions—well, he’s still quite rash, but there is _some_ forethought involved these days. There’s even a sort of…of pride in him. Not arrogance, not like before. I don’t know how else to describe it, except that he even carries himself differently. And that, my lady, is a reflection of _you_. Your goodness, your valor and loyalty, is inspiring him to become a better version of himself.”

He pauses and drains his third cup of wine before continuing. “But you must be careful, Brienne, you must be _very_ careful. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my dear brother goes to unimaginable lengths for those he loves. He’s proven that nothing is off limits: he’s murdered for Cersei before, and he’ll do no less for you. You have him at your complete mercy. I know I may trust that you won’t abuse that power, but I felt I should warn you anyway.”

Brienne somehow finds her voice, though he’s temporarily stunned her into silence. The idea that she has Jaime in some sort of thrall is…she doesn’t know what it is, but it makes her heart pound and it’s left her feeling jittery and confused. “My lord, I’m not sure you’ve got the right of this. Ser Jaime and I are friends, but nothing more, and—”

Tyrion slides off of her bed and pours himself a fourth and final cup of wine, shaking his head as though he’s amused and baffled by her adamant disbelief.

“I suppose this goes without saying as well, but I may as well: if you hurt him, you will have to answer to me. Not exactly a terrifying proposition I know, especially given our respective physiques, but Lannisters do pay their debts.” He salutes her with his freshly filled cup. “Remember what I said about not making my mistake. Goodnight, Lady Brienne.”

“But, my lord, I’m not a lady,” she protests again, although he’s made his way out of her chamber before she can finish her sentence. Brienne stares after him for a moment as she gets to her feet, and then she turns back and refreshes her own cup from the flagon he’s left behind. He’s certainly given her a lot to think about, although it might be safer not to think at all.

And if Tyrion is somehow improbably, impossibly right, what should she do? An army of the dead is closing in, leaving so little time to act…

She decides not to take any action tonight. She has to sort out her own thoughts and gather up her courage before she can face Jaime again. Tonight she’ll drink the rest of Tyrion’s wine and sleep on his words. Surely it will be better to deal with this tomorrow. Feeling better about the situation, she bars her door again and undresses before sinking onto her bed and into a restless sleep.

In the morning, the dead arrive.


End file.
